


The Beautiful Game

by q_19



Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/q_19/pseuds/q_19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the 'watching the big game together' prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beautiful Game

Author’s note: Written before France vs Nigeria game with total understanding that it’s impossible for both France to make the final and Nigeria the bronze game. Pulling out the artistic license to deal with any discrepancies with real life football results.

\------------  
The Beautiful Game  
\------------

Rio is unnaturally hot and humid for July, especially considering it is technically winter. Carrie wipes a bead of sweat off her forehead, tries to gather some energy as she enters the nondescript building the Brazilian Intelligence Agency has been using for this operation. The air is nominally cooler inside but Carrie doesn’t feel any better as she passes through security and walks into the command centre. 

Quinn has beat her there and silently passes her an iced coffee as she walks by. Carrie scowls at him but takes the coffee. He has been positively hovering since they got to Brazil, well actually since she’s been back from Tehran, and she has been trying everything to push him off. 

Carrie knows she’s irritable, that she’s being unfair to him. He doesn’t think she should be here and he’s right. She is on leave for a reason. When her post-Brody depression turned into post-partum depression she needed some time for the meds to kick in, for life to kick in. There had been a lot of hiding out in bed, refusing to see anyone. Well, except for Quinn who fucking refused to be refused. Seeing how he could break in anyhow she figured it was easier just to allow him access. 

But then an old asset made contact for the first time in eleven years with extremely actionable intel on a time-sensitive situation. Credible intel that matched up with a rise in international chatter centering around Islamic extremist groups Boko Haram and ISIS and the World Cup in Brazil. There was going to be an attack on the World Cup final between France and Argentina in two days time. The Islamic groups making a statement against the western values, against muslim players not observing Ramadan, against Christians in general. 

And then, by a turn of fate, the US President was going to attend the Final as he was going to be present in Brazil to support the US team after they miraculously made it to the bronze medal game. So Lockhart ordered her here despite her medical leave and sent Quinn to babysit her. No wonder she is so pissed off, she should be home trying to figure out what to do with her kid, their kid, whatever. She doesn’t give a shit about soccer right now, about an attack, even about the fucking President. It’s not like she forgot Mr. fucking President was the ultimate reason Brody is dead, that her kid doesn’t have a father.

Carrie tries to shake all of that from her head as she looks around the war room. Paper is up everywhere, everyone busy on background checks, looking back at the contractors that helped rebuild the stadium. There is some thought that there is a device or devices built into the actual walls of the stadium, somewhere bomb detectors wouldn’t find them. But Carrie just has a feeling that this is all wrong, there is something they are missing, something she’s missing. And as much as she doesn’t want to be here, she is still on the job and she has personal standards. 

She goes up to Quinn who is pretending to read a file, looking both bored and bothered. 

“Come with me,” she demands. 

Quinn looks up, appears a bit surprised but gets up wordlessly and follows. She likes this about him, he is a mouthy bastard but he knows when to shut up. 

Carrie leads them into an empty room, slumps into an office chair and massages her brain. There is something there, just a wisp but she knows she is missing it. It’s something about the info her contact gave her but she just can’t put her finger on it. She knows the depression is eating at her concentration, is still waiting for the fucking pills to even her out long enough to climb out of the hole. 

Quinn sits in a matching chair across from her, still not saying anything and trying his best not to watch her. 

She pulls up the recording of the message on her phone, listens to it for what seems to be the millionth time. The message is in Arabic, a women’s voice and a bit scratchy, hard to hear in spots. But the information is clear - an attack in Brazil at the Finals to end the World Cup with a bang. 

Quinn keeps watching and not watching for a moment before he pulls up the translation to follow along as Carrie replays the message over and over. 

She eventually hones it down to a moment, when the woman says the attack will be on Brazil. There is something funny in the way she ways it, an inflection or extra syllable but the recording is rough there and it’s hard to tell. Carrie mouths the word to herself, tries to say it the way the woman says it.

“Fuck,” she says loudly, startling Quinn to attention. “She’s not saying Brazil, she’s saying Brasilia.” 

Quinn gives her a considered look. “The translation says Brazil,” he says. 

“It’s hard to hear but it’s not the same. She is definitely saying Brasilia,” Carrie argues. “The attack isn’t going to be in Rio, it’s going to be at the bronze medal game in Brasilia tomorrow.” 

Quinn looks at her disbelievingly and she wills him to listen. She is right, she felt it instantly when the pieces came together. They need to go to Brasilia right away and no one else is going to listen to her or back her up. She’s just the bitchy blonde who got the original intel and hasn’t done anything since but piss off superiors. 

“US vs Nigeria?” Quinn asks. “Why would Boko Haram target their own?” 

Carrie frowns, there’s no time to explain and she knows he won’t go without some solid evidence. Which there is none of and no time to get any either. It’s already almost afternoon and the game is the next day at five local time. 

So instead of explaining she just gets up and starts walking out of the room. Predictably, Quinn follows her.

“Carrie!” he calls as she heads out of the building. “Carrie! Where the fuck are you going?” 

“Brasilia,” she answers without looking back.

“Jesus, Carrie. You can’t just leave,” Quinn tries pathetically. 

“You coming or not?” she responds, not even looking to see if he follows. She knows he will come with her, Quinn has been nothing but overattentive since she returned from Tehran. He looks disgruntled but predictably follows her into the cab and to the airport. 

By the time Carrie’s bought two tickets to Brasilia Quinn has stopped arguing and has just given in to his fate. He gives her an irritated look when she passes him his boarding card and she smiles at him pretend-sweetly. She’ll never admit it but Carrie is quite relieved Quinn is coming with her - she knows she can count on him to watch her back. 

It’s a short flight to Brasilia and they head straight to the stadium on arrival. Carrie is impressed that Quinn managed to suppress the urge to ask her what her plan is but he has been full of silent disapproving looks. 

The truth is she has no plan, just a feeling and an urge to action. The bronze medal game is in less than 24 hours now and the lives of thousands could depend entirely on her and Quinn. There is little time to find proof and bring in the Brazilian operatives who have consistently refused to listen to the abrasive American in their midst. 

The stadium is nearly empty when they arrive and start talking to security, showing their credentials and insisting on being let in. They go through a few rounds of this, moving up the security ladder each time, Carrie leading the charge despite her limited Portuguese. She just keeps on flashing their temporary Brazilian Intelligence IDs and yelling in the face of burly guards, refusing to back down until they are finally escorted into the stadium’s central security area. 

As they walk into the security centre Carrie tries to sneak a look over at Quinn. He is wearing a stern expression and has taken the role of annoyed observer, seemingly content to watch her bull their way into the secure zone. He has said less than ten words to her since the start of their impromptu trip and she is starting to worry that he is actually pissed off at her. But there isn’t any time to consider Quinn’s feelings when they may be sitting in an arena armed and ready to blow. 

The security area is almost empty, only two guards pretending to watch the screens when Carrie and Quinn are let in. Carrie immediately takes over a block of screens and demands to be shown video from the previous week of all areas outside the stadium. 

Quinn sits beside her, his eyes flitting between her and the video screens. 

“What the hell are we looking for anyways?” he asks with sintering eyes.

Carrie glares back. “I’ll know it when I see it,” she replies. 

Quinn grunts, keeps rolling through video. Carrie focuses on the screens, ignores everything else. Somehow she’s certain of where a device or devices would have to be placed for maximal damage, and has a sense that they were placed in the past week, only after the teams in the third place match had been determined. 

It is near midnight when Quinn stands up and stretches. Carrie barely looks up even though her whole body is sore from sitting for more than six hours in one place. 

“Jesus Carrie, there’s nothing here. Even if there was, my eyes are shot, we need a break,” Quinn finally says, rubbing his eyes. “Actually, we need to leave, go back to Rio.” 

Carrie scowls at him. Her eyes are aching too and she hasn’t eaten all day but there is something there, she can sense it. And she isn’t stopping until she finds it.

“Speak for yourself, Quinn,” she responds. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Quinn groans, looks at his phone. “They’re looking for us, Carrie. We have to go back,” he says. 

Carrie had turned her own phone off hours ago, knowing command would be trying to locate them. “Jesus Quinn, turn it off or they can track us here,” she responds. 

Quinn sighs, closes his eyes briefly. “What the fuck are we doing here, Carrie?” he finally asks. “We shouldn’t even be in Rio, much less here, alone, looking for ghosts.” 

Carrie turns, full of anger. “Well, fuck Quinn. If you want to go back so badly just go then. But I’m not going anywhere until the threat here is neutralized. And when the fuck do you get to say where I should or shouldn’t be?” 

Quinn gets that look in his face that says he’s eating his emotions as he stands up and stares down at her. But he doesn’t say a word as he picks up his coat and walks out the door, leaving Carrie alone and frustrated, wondering if she’s seen the last of him. 

When it’s clear that he’s gone and isn’t coming back, Carrie lets herself slack off for a moment and slumps down in her seat. She knows she shouldn’t push him so much, he’s been more of a friend to her than she could ever expect. But pushing comes naturally to her and it’s hard to accept that he’s become important to her. Really it scares the shit out of her. 

So Carrie just accepts that maybe she broke things like she usually does, tries not to let it push her back towards the depression she’s barely gotten away from. If Quinn can’t deal with her shit then he was dead weight anyways, and she has an attack to stop. She wonders if he’s on a flight back to Rio yet, how angry he will be when she sees him again. Then she makes herself stop thinking about him and focuses back on the screens. 

Hours later, in the depths of the early morning dark, she thinks she sees it on what must be the millionth run through of all the tapes. A street vendor has been hawking his wares in varying locations but always close enough to spend some time near the large stone pillars that surround the stadium, holding up the roof. The vendor doesn’t appear to be threatening, nor is he every carrying anything large enough to bring down the stadium but he does always seem to have a small package that then disappears after he’s been near the pillars. 

Carrie knows she should wait for more security to arrive in the morning to help her search the pillars for devices but is impatient as usual. Looks around for a flashlight, wonders how much time she could save by looking for them herself. She is digging around an utility drawer when the door opens and she smells coffee. Carrie assumes it’s the security guard coming back after a round of the arena but looking up she sees Quinn, bearing coffee and food. He still looks pissed off, but in his regular way. 

“Quinn, do you have a light?” she asks in way of greeting. 

He looks at her sternly but produces a small but powerful light from an unseen pocket, shines it in her eyes. 

“Jesus, Carrie. You look like shit. Sit down, eat something. Then I’ll help you do whatever you want,” he says. 

She frowns, scowls at him but sits down. It is a good deal, she just doesn’t like it when Quinn is right. 

He hands her some sort of empladinha and she has to admit it’s fucking good. Carrie doesn’t quite admit that she’s relieved he came back, that he didn’t leave her on her own but she’s pretty sure he knows she likes having him around. She wonders when he started knowing which foods she likes, then remembers he’s a spy and should be able to figure that kind of shit out. 

Carrie finishes her food, does a little ta-da with her hands and looks at Quinn expectantly. He gives her a disgruntled look but gets up and follows her out of the security room. 

She leads Quinn out of the stadium and grabs his flashlight, starts inspecting one of the huge concrete pillars. And there definitely sees to be something there, a small extra lump of grey on the pillar, quite high up but visible to the naked eye. Only if you were looking for it though, otherwise it was out of sight and unlikely to be noticed. 

“Shit, Carrie. There’s definitely something there,” Quinn says when she shines the light on the lump for him.

Carrie smirks, resists the urge to say I told you so. They check a few more pillars and they all have similar misshapen lumps of grey substance up high. Once it’s clear that Carrie’s right as usual Quinn makes the call to Brazilian intelligence and the Federal Police. 

An hour later the stadium is teeming with local cops, federal cops and other officers from various agencies. They’ve removed one of the devices, found it to be a small bomb, just big enough to destroy one pillar. But with one on each pillar timed to blow at the same time, the whole roof would have caved in, likely killing thousands.

When it’s clear that the locals have it under control Quinn comes up to Carrie and gives her the ‘let’s get out of here’ look. By then she’s tired enough to agree and he takes her to a hotel, guides her with his arm around her shoulders like she’s sleepwalking. 

He pours her into bed, takes off her shoes and socks. Carrie tries to resist, to do it herself but it’s easier to give in. 

“I’ll wake you up in three hours for debrief,” he says. “How are you always just fucking right anyways?” 

Carrie’s already sleeping but still smiles at the comment. 

\----------

At the morning debrief Lockhart calls and congratulates Carrie via video phone, saying he knew he needed her down there. Carrie scowls, mutters a thank you. Lockhart goes on to say the President wants the secret service to be personally debriefed by her before she returns to Rio and Carrie curses inwardly. Now that she has done her job, she wants to just leave, get the hell out of Brazil. 

Carrie considers just grabbing Quinn and taking off, knows he won’t go for it. It’s a moot point anyways as there are secret service agents waiting for her when she exits the debrief. They take her to a luxury hotel, frisk her every way possible until she asks them what the fuck they are doing. They ignore her and lead her to a penthouse suite, ushering her in and then standing on guard at the door. 

Carrie stands, wondering what the fuck is going on when the President exits the bedroom and walks up to shake her hand. 

“Ms. Mathison, I’m told I most likely owe you my life,” the President says, looking her in the eye. 

Carrie mentally stumbles but recovers quickly. “Right, well they did have enough to drop the whole roof on the place,” she replies, thinking she’s probably supposed to be throwing a couple of Mr. Presidents in each sentence. But what the fuck, he’s just a guy right, just a guy who fucked her over without knowing. 

“Yes, well I would love to sit down and get the details on how you figured this out on your own but I just don’t have the time at the moment. I’m still due at the game shortly thanks to your efforts,” the President continues. Carrie thinks he’s just talking to hear himself talk but there’s some satisfaction to having won this round, of having had his life in her hands, in a way.

“But I won’t be attending the match in Rio tomorrow. Just as a precaution, you know. Especially after today - hopefully we don’t get any copycats with big ideas,” he continues. 

Carrie nods, wonders what he is getting at. “Too bad, I hear it’s supposed to be a good game,” she says in her best attempt at civility. 

“Yes, it does have the makings of a great game. So, seeing how I am missing out, I would like you to go in my place,” the President says.

Carrie is startled, unsure if she heard correctly. “Excuse me, sir?” she asks. “You want me to go to the game?” 

The president nods. “I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more,” he replies, passing her a pair of tickets. 

Carrie stares at the tickets, is speechless for a moment. “Thank you Mr. President. I’m not sure what to say,” she sputters, genuinely shocked. She wasn’t the biggest soccer fan and she wanted to get the fuck out of Brazil but Carrie still recognized the value of the tickets she now held. 

“Tell both Francois and Cristina good luck,” the president says, naming the France and Argentine presidents with a wink. 

Carrie gives him an odd smile and turns to go. “Of course, thank you, sir,” she replies. 

The secret service lead her back down to the lobby where she finds Quinn sitting and waiting, an annoyed look perched on his face. 

“They wouldn’t let me up,” he says when she approaches. “What the hell was going on up there?” 

Carrie doesn’t reply, just puts the two tickets up to his face and waits for him to understand. 

“Are those tickets to tomorrow’s game?” he asks. “Bullshit.” 

Carrie lets herself smile for a moment. “The president wanted to show me his fucking gratitude,” she says. “Pays to know people in high places, Quinn.” 

Quinn frowns, throws on a sneer. “You hate that guy, Carrie,” he replies. 

Carrie shrugs. “Yeah, but I saved his life too. Guess I don’t hate him as much as I thought,” she answers thoughtfully. “So, what you wanted me to say no to the tickets?” 

Quinn shakes his head. “Hell no, Carrie. Those things are worth more than fucking gold. It’s the chance of a lifetime,” he replies. 

Carrie gives him a questioning look. “Are you telling me you’re into soccer, Quinn?” she asks. Quinn isn’t into anything as far as she can tell, hasn’t expressed any interest in the World Cup even though they are in Brazil. 

He gives her a sideways look, seems a bit leery. “I spent a lot of time in South America,” he replies defensively. “Had a lot of time to kill.”    
Typical Quinn, all terse robotic black ops boy. But she knows different. She’s getting to know him and there’s a person under the outer demeanor. 

“So you wouldn’t want to be my date to the game then,” she says with an evil look. 

Quinn flashes a smile, the first genuine one she’s seen in awhile. He jumps up, grabs the tickets and puts his arm around her shoulders. “I think the Agency has a policy against dating, but I won’t tell,” he says. 

Carrie has to smile, recalls he isn’t the rules-oriented dickhead she once took him for. She lets him guide her into a cab and out to the airport where she falls asleep on him while they wait for their flight. 

Back in Rio he takes her straight to their hotel even though Carrie’s sure they should be in debrief or preparing for the next day.   “There’s nothing they need you for,” he says and Carrie knows he’s right. The bombs in Brasilia were dismantled and they would have gotten all the detailed reports. Anything similar would be spotted right away and they didn’t need her expertise in anything else. 

“You’ve probably slept less than four hours in two nights. Order some food, get some sleep,” Quinn adds. 

Carrie scowls. “Since when did you become my keeper, Quinn?” she asks, even though the idea of sleep sounds amazing at the moment. 

But Quinn doesn’t take the bait, just pushes her into her hotel room and gives her a stern look. “Carrie, please,” he says. “Just rest. You’ve been through a lot and you’ve just saved thousands of lives. Cut us both a break ok?” 

For a second Carrie thinks she might cry. She does need a break, was having one and then all this shit came along. And she knows she’s hard on Quinn, that he doesn’t deserve a lot of the crap she throws at him. But sometimes he’s the only target she has around. And this is all too much for her to be thinking about at this moment when she is exhausted. 

Thankfully Quinn walks her to the bed and sits her down. “I know you’re having a hard time but I’m here. Whatever you need, Carrie,” he says reassuringly and she thinks sometimes he does manage to say exactly what she needs. 

“Thanks Quinn,” she says with her half smile, half frown look.

“Remember. Eat, sleep. Big game tomorrow, you need to get your energy up,” Quinn says seriously as he gives her shoulders one last squeeze. 

Carrie looks up and nods. “Sure thing coach,” she says, suddenly remembering all the reasons she lets him stick around. 

\----------

The stadium is raucous, full of face-painted fans running around in patriotic colours and flags. Carrie and Quinn make their way towards the reserved area for VIPs, dodging spilt beer and deafening airhorns. It is hot and humid in there and Carrie is already sweating through the blue and white Messi t-shirt Quinn bought for her. He is wearing a matching shirt and she can’t believe he’s managed to make her match with him in public, that he would ever ask such a ridiculous thing of her. 

But the crowd is full of energy and life, elements she has been living without for awhile now and Carrie feels a bit of the buzz rubbing off on her. She suddenly realizes she’s having a good time, that she’s glad to be there with Quinn. She hasn’t been glad to be anywhere since Tehran but Carrie feels the sad hopelessness fading away. She knows it’s partly the meds finally levelling her out but she thinks it’s possible she’s healing too.

Quinn buys her a couple drinks and they make their way to the best seats in the house. Sitting down, they fake smile and make polite conversation with the various world dignitaries around them. Then they both look up at the camera set up by Brazilian intelligence and give real smiles and clink of their drinks. Carrie imagines the guys back at the command centre watching them and smirks. Each and every one of them came to ogle the tickets when Quinn offhandedly mentioned how Carrie was taking him to the game. 

She doesn’t know much about the sport but the game is exciting and it’s strangely intimate with Quinn sitting by her excitedly explaining the rules. Carrie can’t remember if she’s ever seen him so lively and thinks it’s nice to see Quinn this way, loose and having a good time. 

When Messi scores late in the second half they both leap up and cheer as loud as any Argentine, the president of Argentina included. In fact they are high-fiving with her and cheers-ing with her in the face of the somber French president. Carrie realizes she’s been having mindless fun, hasn’t thought about any of the shit in her life since they got to the game. And it’s great.

“I’m having a really good time, Quinn,” she admits as they stand for the last few minutes of the game. Argentina is still up by just the one goal and there is less than five minutes to play. 

Quinn smiles genuinely, looks at her fondly. “That’s good, Carrie. You deserve it,” he replies. 

Carrie smiles in return - a full one, not the usual half she gives him. “You too, Quinn,” she says. “It’s not much of a reward though. I know what I’ve put you through.” 

She thinks of all the names she has called him, all the tantrums she’s thrown his way when he’s trying to help, to do whatever he can. But he just kept on coming back for more, refusing to give up on her. Which pissed her off to no end. 

But Quinn raises his eyebrows, looks surprised. “Are you fucking kidding me, Carrie?” he yells. “This is a once in a lifetime kind of thing. And you don’t owe me anything, you never did. I stick around because I really fucking like you, Carrie Mathison. And because I’m a fucking stubborn bastard.” 

Now it’s Carrie’s turn to be surprised. Maybe it’s the drinks that have loosened Quinn’s tongue but she knows he’s telling her the truth.

“Well, no matter what I say sometimes, Quinn. I like having you around too,” she responds. 

Quinn’s smile grows and she wonders if it’s her admission of liking him or the fact that there’s less than two minutes to go of injury time and Argentina is about to win the game. He puts his arms around her shoulders in the oddly comforting way he has as the countdown begins. 

When the referee blows the whistle signaling the end of the game the stadium erupts and the Argentine players pour onto the pitch, celebrating their win. Carrie lets herself get caught up in the emotions flying around and grabs Quinn around the neck, pulling him down to place a chaste kiss on his lips. 

Quinn looks completely startled but relaxes into a smile and Carrie smiles for the camera again. She can always blame the emotions of the moment but she knows it’s more than that. It’s completely improbable but she likes this, standing together with Quinn in matching shirts, arms intertwined and raised in celebration. 

Carrie feels herself emerging from the dark hole she’s been hiding in, realizes she’s less anxious about going home, deciding what’s best for her baby, going back to work. All it took was a pair of impossible tickets and one slightly less impossible Quinn. 

It’s unlikely but true. Carrie thinks she just may really fucking like Peter Quinn. 

So she smiles and kisses him again, just to make sure. 

\-----------

fin.


End file.
